Seeing Red
by wheeljackie
Summary: Mother was a good person; why would she do something like this? Whenever she started beating me, there'd be a time where she stopped. Why this eternal punishment?


**Hello everyone! This is a twoshot I'm doing; chapter one is really just backstory about Kano with his mother. The actual story will be here in chapter two! Thanks for reading, guys~**

* * *

Mother was nice. Mother gave me food, she even bought me candy on good days! She was always so caring, she'd often send me to school with a giant smile on her face. I remember just how happy she would get whenever her most recent boyfriend was mentioned. To be honest, he was kind of gross. Mother said smoking was bad, but she often tossed cigarettes out in the street with him. Did she mean it was only okay for the big kids? After all, I've seen some of those really big, scary kids smoke behind shopping malls and drugstores. That made more sense.

Mother made lots of mistakes. Or rather, I made the mistakes. She needed to punish me. The first time it happened, I'd slept in past noon. It wasn't that unusual for me, but when I entered the living room, I could tell she was not well today. She wasn't sick, just sad. I didn't want to see Mother like that.

I approached like how I usually did, smiling and positive. She didn't seem to notice me until I was in front of her, where she finally shifted her gaze from the floor and to me. It was obvious she'd been crying; I didn't like that. Mother shouldn't cry. I looked up to her, because she was Mother. I loved her.

"You slept in late," she muttered darkly. It was a voice I'd never heard before, "that shouldn't happen. Was I such a failure as a mother that I couldn't fix your sleeping schedule?" It all happened so quickly, my wrist being snatched away and ended up pulled into very much the first session.

I was selfishly scared. I hadn't seen Mother so angry before, it was very upsetting. She grasped a folded newspaper and stared at me coldly, me still unable to escape. I watched her raise it and, almost mechanically, began to beat me with it. It was rhythmic, the newspaper coming down on my back and shoulders at a constant pace.

_One, two. One, two. One, two._

I wasn't sure how much time had passed when she stopped.

Once she did, I realized she was crying again. I didn't know what to make of it at first, my body was too full of betrayal and pain. She fixed her gaze at me, and I almost expected her to continue attacking me with the newspaper.

She didn't. Instead, she ended up turning her eyes away from me with a sob. I can remember her words as if it'd been spoken yesterday.

"Get out," she managed to order, "unless you want the newspaper again." I obeyed, racing out of the room screaming and crying. I was absolutely terrified, unsure of what had just happened.

I found myself locked in the bathroom, hiding inside one of the cabinets. Why did she do that? Why was she mad? My thoughts were racing, desperately attempting to find the most probable solution.

I eventually found it.

I could've made Mother happy if I hadn't slept in. I was a bad, selfish kid for only thinking of my sleep. This was my own fault, and it was a punishment. She wouldn't beat me like that for her own amusement, she was a good person.

I decided that my punishments were good punishments, I wouldn't mess up again next time. She burned my skin, beat me with a belt, made me bleed. In the long run, I didn't care. Mother would feel better afterwards; less sad. Seeing her happy made me happy.

Although, people started noticing. When asked, I always said I fell or played with hot water. They didn't need to hate Mother when she'd done nothing wrong. I started to wear big hoodies and long jeans to cover the burns and bruises; it made me feel as if I were in an oven. I never changed my mind however, this was for Mother. They might've taken her away if I had just let the scars show.

I can't estimate how long that time lasted, but it came to an end when evil people broke into our home. They wanted to steal Mother's jewelry and all of her prized possessions. Who would do that? I didn't understand. She didn't buy expensive things like gold pendants or any of that stuff. Why target us? _Why target us?!_

They cornered me, asking for Mother's presence. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I was terrified. I wanted them to go away. Why did they want Mother?

They said they were going to kill me if I moved, and then they started going through the kitchen. I wanted to scream out, but I was selfish. I didn't want to die.

The thieves then started to head towards Mother's bedroom. No, they can't go in there! Father was in there. . . They'd take him away!

Without thinking, I screamed in protest. The bad men turned their heads toward me; I couldn't see the faces behind their masks, but I could easily tell they were angry. They said they'd kill me if I tried anything, didn't they?

I could only watch as they neared me. No, no, no, this can't be happening–

"Keep away from my son, you bitch!" I heard Mother's voice scream in fury. No, she's going to die! Mother suddenly tackled one of the thieves, begging me to run.

I just stood there crying. My legs wouldn't move. I was disobeying her. She was going to be mad! I'm sorry Mother. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

_Splash!_

The floor was suddenly coated with a cardinal red. It was Mother's blood.

I suddenly stopped crying, gazing at the body lying on the floor with a deadpan stare. That wasn't her. The long, brown hair belonged to someone else. The black jacket she always wore on Sundays didn't belong to her. No, this was just someone who held her appearance. A lookalike. A doppelgänger.

Her murderers exchanged glances with each other. They accused the other and yelled, but I couldn't hear what they said; my emotional shock drowned out their voices.

That's when I realized I was the next victim.

They snatched my arm, snapping me out of my daze, and pinned me against the wall. I was all but a small child, so I couldn't fight them back. I kicked and screamed, a feeble attempt to escape their clutches.

Then they plunged the very same knife they had used to slay Mother into my stomach, causing me to scream in agony. They didn't pull it out, only pushing the object farther up my chest.

The pain was unbearable, unlike any beating I've received in my life. I just wanted it to stop.

And it did.

I was glad.


End file.
